


Ready...Or Not

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: For March's Fete des Mousquetaires challenge. The four musketeers are prepared for almost everything...but this...





	Ready...Or Not

They were well on their way to legendary status. Their reputation proceeded, refined and defined them. The Inseparables. Always ready for the next confrontation. Always eager to meet the enemy head to head. Always willing to risk the unthinkable when duty called. It wasn’t that they desired their own demise; the richness of life flowed freely through their veins, like the copious amounts of wine they ingested. But their commitment to duty overrode all and many would say it also overrode their common sense. But somehow, no matter what, they rallied and were always prepared to defeat whatever trouble the world tossed their way. 

Friends and enemies alike wondered what the trio turned quartet’s secret was to being so prepared for conflict. It certainly wasn’t favoritism for Captain Treville gave them some of the most grueling assignments, even though it was known he had a touch of fondness for the four. And it wasn’t leniency, for the same Captain had punished the three, then four, often enough for their misdeeds. The horses in the stable knew them well, as did the empty corridors of the Palace.

It wasn’t simply luck; the four succeeded despite their fair share of bruised bodies and souls. Loss of comrades. Death of innocents. Wrongs done in the name of right. While luck did play a small role in their victories it was no more so than that of their enemies. 

Many things had been debated about the four's preparedness for the life they led. 

Practice. Some thought that was the key. The four did train long and hard together to hone their talents. Each man brought his own skill set to the table. Unique, yet complimentary. The marksman, the swordsman, the streetfighter and the fourth, a blend of the three. A deadly force when combined with their love of adventure and the righteousness of their missions.

Planning. None of the four was stupid. Some were more book-learned and others got by on street-smarts. One possessed a mind that could nimbly and successfully walk between the flights of fancy and the harsh reality of the world. One possessed a strategic, tactical mind, quick to grasp the scattered pieces and assemble them into a coherent whole. The third had a mind that easily grasped the facts and swiftly eliminated all non-essentials and irrelevancies to arrive at a solution. The last had a mind that was a sponge, learning and soaking up everything around it, then applying it with ease as if he was born with the knowledge.

Persistence. All four were like a dog with a meaty bone. Come hell or high water, broken bones or battered souls, what they started they finished. One had a tenacity that could be momentarily swayed by compassion, but always came back to finish the job. The second was enigmatic, only seeming to acquiesce while following his own concept of duty. The third was forthright and straight as an arrow with no holds barred, never letting go. The last was the true dog with the bone, no matter what the odds, no matter what was said or done, he stubbornly clung to the prize. 

Patience. That might easily be ruled out, for none of them seemed to possess that trait. They did not suffer fools lightly, except, curiously, each other. It wasn’t that a brother could do no wrong, for time and time again they each had proven that adage to be incorrect. But a brother could do no wrong that couldn’t be forgiven. And if that was patience, then maybe they had that attribute after all. 

But perhaps, when all was said and done, it was simply easiest to say they were prepared and leave it at that. But if they were prepared to endure all matters of confrontation, there was one which none of the four was prepared to face; dealings with the fairer sex. They were always prepared. Except when they weren't.

Try as they may, the four seemed to fail miserably in the matter of being prepared for cupid’s poisoned arrow. There were the clandestine meetings, in which they all participated, though admittedly some with more frequency than others. It would have been far wiser for all of them simply to avoid such tête-à-têtes; yet it was a feat none of them seemed capable of performing. Purposely or accidently, the trysts happened and, ironically, the four never seemed to understand the heartache that inevitably followed. An English bard wrote ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’. Had they heard this, the four of them would declare the English knew nothing of the matters of love. Parting is not sweet. It is only sorrow.

The four were never prepared for “her”, even when they should have been. They never gave their hearts the stern lecture that "she" was not for them. Of if they did, the lesson was quickly forgotten upon the casual brushing of eyes across a crowded room or a busy street. They overlooked the fact that "she" was unattainable, though they had attained her once. They failed to recognize the vast difference between attain and maintain. "She" was not theirs. "She" belonged on the arm of another. "She" couldn't be theirs, or shouldn't be, even if their heart cried out that it would cease to function without her. No, none of them were ever prepared when it came to women.

Never prepared when turning a corner in the Palace and finding she is there, like a vision. His eyes meeting hers and suddenly his heart is pounding in his chest so loudly that he is sure she must hear it too. He wants nothing more than to gather her up in his arms and smother her in his all-consuming passion. But he dares not, for she is not his. He debates if can he reach out a hand, to steady her. Surely, he tells himself, she must be unbalanced by the near collision. He knows the real reason is the simple need to touch her, prove to himself she is real. He reaches out a tentative hand, then stops. His mind, not quite as blind as his heart, interferes. What if there is someone behind her? Or behind him? If he is seen? Is the fate of a country worth a mere touch? Their eyes linger, drinking in each other before commonsense wins out. Ripping his eyes and heart away, he bows and mutters an apology, though it is not clear to either of them for what he is apologizing. The near collision or the unattainable love? He stays like that, staring at the floor for an eternity, for if he were to raise his eyes and someone were to see them, all would be lost. He was never prepared when it came to her.

Never prepared to run into her in a dark, rain-soaked alley. He is distracted and suddenly she is there, like an angel from heaven. Or maybe a devil from hell. His mind, which normally runs a tight ship over his emotions, grinds to a halt against the coral reef it was not expecting. His foolish heart leaps for joy even as his mind descends into the dark abyss that is his guilt. There is electricity crackling in the air, palpable, but it is not a by-product of the storm. He knows well what she did, the most horrible day of his life. Or perhaps the second most horrible day. He knows he did what he had to, his duty. But in the end, he was not prepared and cowardly rode off, his life a devastation that he would never escape. And here he is, five years later, still unprepared for a meeting he knew would occur at some point. Unprepared for when she draws close and his breath hitches in his throat. Unprepared when she reaches out a gloved-hand, brushing his exposed chest. And when she draws even closer, he lets her. He should run her through with his sword, but as she fingers the locket he still wears, "her" locket, his traitorous heart gives in and their lips meet. There is desire and revulsion in the same instant. His lips offer her words of condemnation, even as his heart foolishly beats for her. He was never prepared when it came to her. 

Not prepared, in the church where he watches the comely widow in the first pew. He forces his eyes away, but they keep wandering back to her black draped form. He is only at this church for one thing and it isn’t prayer. He has prepared his heart, telling it that this isn’t going to be real. A simple means to an end. Needs must. But his heart doesn’t listen and it doesn’t work out that way. Cupid’s arrow strikes and the con is conned by the devil called love. Or maybe simply infatuation. But he isn’t prepared for how far his foolish heart is willing to go on this quest. A token. A dinner. A bedding. He begins to consider giving up the job he loves, that he was born for, to maintain this mirage. Willing to turn his back on his brothers who are dearer to him than life itself. He keeps denying that he and she are worlds apart. The princess and the pauper. A love that can never be maintained for the restraints will be too tight and choke off the passion. He was never prepared when it came to her. 

And he doesn’t even try to be prepared. Like a new born puppy, he blindly stumbles into love, into her. They are like a candle burning at both ends, rapidly careening towards each other, consuming all in their path. He doesn’t care that she legally belongs to another. He doesn’t care that what he is doing puts her at great risk, for the rules of her world are different and harsher than his. She rushes to help him when his heart rules his head. He lets her put herself at great risk for his foolish notion of revenge. She scolds him for his sheer foolishness, while still sheltering him from the storm that rages around them. Suffering silently for his sake when she is discovered, taking his punishment on as her own. He was never prepared when it came to her. But, perhaps, she was prepared for him. 

Four men, none prepared for love. A love that could destroy a nation. A love that could destroy a man. A love that could destroy a friendship. A love that could destroy a woman.

Four sets of eyes rise from the glowing embers into which they have been staring, suffering, contemplating, and reminiscing. Four hearts, still unprepared to meet the challenge. A cup is raised. Three follow. A single word is repeated four times. Once with a warm sigh. Once with a touch of hatred. Once with a touch of regret. Once with acceptance. “Women.”

The four are prepared for any confrontation, except the greatest one of all, called love. But can anyone ever really be prepared for love? 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta Mountain Cat who came up with great turn of phrases and a title!


End file.
